Yesterday, I cancelled my normal office hours. This was partly due to not wanting to speak or see anybody ever again, but mostly it was because of a nasty sore throat which made it very hard to talk. So I rescheduled the time for this morning, as I thought (correctly) that I would be feeling better by then.
As I walked into my office, I saw the flashing voicemail light on my phone. I don't think I've spoken at length about my voicemail (and I'm sure you're all devastated by this lack of knowledge); my inbox seems to receive many messages that aren't meant for me. These come in two types: there's the short *click* as the person ringing realises that they've dialed the wrong number, and there's people who leave messages on subjects as disparate as "wanting to restart the mailserver" and wanting me to "fix the guttering on the Greenlaw building". One day, I'm going to go over to Greenlaw and start working on that guttering. They did seem rather anxious. Perhaps it's a trap; when I get there, I'll find myself confronted with a zombie workforce, all led to their doom by the odd phonecalls that the Zombie-Master of Greenlaw was leaving, all to build up a vast undead army which will rise up and defeat—
Oh. Sorry, I don't get out much.
Anyway, there was a message for me. At first, it sounded like another crossed wire, so I only paid cursory attention (getting the location of the zombie army's fortress for when the heroes have to go on a suicidal mission to save the Earth. Or waiting for the computer to boot up). It was somebody from the accounts department in the Computer Science building, wanting to know about some package which was sent in December, one which Kevin Jeffay—
(The professor who taught the course I was assisting last year. And I've suddenly become aware that this message is meant for me)
—has no idea why I sent the package, so could I come and see them about it?
I have no idea what they're talking about, but I go upstairs with a sinking feeling. I had thought this week couldn't get worse. But then they hand me an invoice from FedEx. They're asking for $141.50 for a package I apparently sent on the 19th of December, from my house to a D. Bianco, somewhere in New Jersey. At this point, I'm starting to think that joining the Greenlaw Zombie Army might not be such a bad idea. I don't even know anybody in New Jersey! I go back to my office with the invoice and start checking things out on the FedEx website. Which helpfully tells me that I sent the package, and that it arrived in NJ on the 23rd of December. But all I sent was the exam papers. Nothing else. Sure, I joked about how I had access to the UNC FedEx account, but I would never betray their trust in me by using the number for my own purposes. Who is D. Bianco? I'm becoming paranoid by this time, searching the Internet to try and find out something about this person, asking Bonnie if she knows anything (terribly sorry about that, by the way; I knew you'd probably be there to answer the mail, and I couldn't rely on anyone else). But I find nothing.
I eventually go back upstairs and tell them I know nothing about it. At all. They don't seem all that bothered, to be completely honest; but I feel terrible. And completely guilty. Even though I didn't send the package, or have anything to do with it, I must have done something which allowed this to happen. I've written an apology to Professor Jeffay, as I presume that this incident will reflect badly on him, considering he was the one who gave me access to the account number. I wish I knew what happened.
The week can end right now, as far as I'm concerned. I don't want to know just how bad Saturday and Sunday have to be in to top this. I imagine it'll probably involve a visit from Homeland Security and some rubber gloves.
Oh, and stop phoning me about credit cards. I have one. I'm not going to buy another. Besides, it's interferring with the zombie signals from Greenlaw...